After the Bloodshed
by Winged Quill
Summary: A petty feud between a forensics officer and a consulting detective leads to a terrible tragedy. John and Mrs. Hudson grieve, Anderson panics, Lestrade and Mycroft throw all they are into hunting down the murderer, and Sherlock tries to figure out the rules of the afterlife.
1. Chapter 1

Anderson shoved open the door to 221B without knocking, trying in vain to get the element of surprise. He knew it wouldn't work, of course it wouldn't, the Freak probably already knew it was him from the way his shoes scuffed on the door step as he stepped in.

The landlady was out, he had seen her outside of the local Tesco not twenty minutes ago on his way over. Convenient, he would be able to have his little talk with the Freak unobserved. John Watson, he knew, was at his latest girlfriend's house after yet another row with Sherlock, he had been complaining to Lestrade that morning.

Whether it was just a strange coincidence, or the stars aligning, or some vengeful deity that the Freak had gotten on the wrong side of, Anderson would never know. Nobody would. They would mostly write it off as extraordinarily bad luck on the Freak's part, or extraordinarily good luck on his killer's. Either that, they would say, or the entire thing was preemptive.

Which it wasn't. Of course not. Anderson had never intended things to get so horribly out of hand, and later he would blame anything and everything but himself. When he looked down at the blood on his hands and the red ribbon of it that encircled his victim's neck, he would not be able to believe that he had done this terrible, sickening thing.

Murder. The very thing he fought against, and he had unknowingly set off to commit it, a rash act in a haze of anger that would bring his whole world crashing down. He strode up the stairs, shaking in rage. His wife had left him last night, and he was entirely one-hundred-percent sure it was the Freak's fault. He had been the first one to discover his affair with Sally, had he not? Anderson knew that the Freak would have told his wife, out of sheer spite.

He flung open the door to the Freak's living room, only to see him casually lounging in his armchair, plucking away at his violin. He looked up, with that infuriating smug look on his face. Anderson's hands curled into fists, and he stalked closer to the Freak, unconsciously mirroring a lion closing in on an unsuspecting piece of prey.

The Freak stood, setting down his beloved instrument (which received way more care than any human ever would from him) and put his hands in the pockets of his dressing gown, eyes boring into Anderson, analyzing him, judging him.

"The wife find out then?" he mocked. "Pity. It never could have lasted Anderson. Surely even your tiny little brain could figure that out." Anderson stepped even closer, the furious shaking settling down as an icy calm overtook him. "And now you're blaming me for it."

"Brilliant deduction," Anderson spat. "Really clever of you, Freak."

"What do you want, Anderson? For me to tell you I'm sorry?"

"You told her!" snarled Anderson. "You only exist to ruin my life!"

"Why would I concern myself with your love life, Anderson? I have better things to do than to mess with a person who's only purpose in life is to lower the IQ of everyone within a ten-mile radius."

That was the straw that broke the camel's back. Anderson snarled and lunged for the Freak, swinging a punch and catching him across the face. He blinked, startled for a moment, before assuming a defensive position, raising his hands to block incoming blows.

"You've really crossed the line this time, you know that?" he growled, staring at the Freak through a red haze. Part of his mind was screaming at him (this isn't you, you're better than this!) but he ignored it, shoving it aside and dashing forward again, shoving the Freak backwards into the kitchen.

The Freak fought back, kicking Anderson in the chest, his eyes darting around the room trying to find something to use to his advantage. He spotted something (his skull? A set-aside experiment? Anderson would never know) and lunged for it. It was at that moment that Anderson decided to strike.

He took advantage of the Freak's momentary change of momentum to lunge at him, sending him face-first into a counter. He cracked his head and fell to the tile floor, desperately windmilling his arms in an attempt to keep him upright. He tried to get back up but slumped to the floor, the knock to the head sending him into a dizzy spiral.

Anderson stood, watching as the Freak pathetically tried to brace himself against the counter, still thinking that somehow, in some ridiculous way, he would be able to win. He grabbed the nearest thing he could find, a butcher's knife left lying on the table, probably used in one of the Freak's weird tests, and held it up, examining it.

He looked down at the Freak, smiling as hints of fear began to flicker across his eyes. Despite his head wound, he was fully aware of his vulnerable state, and what Anderson was capable of doing to him. Anderson knelt down next to him and pressed the tip of the knife against his throat.

"Not so high-and-mighty now, are you?" he said softly.

"You're not thinking straight...Anderson, this isn't who you are!"

"Shut up!" he snarled, grabbing the Freak's head and slamming it against the ground. "I could draw this out as long as I like Freak, I could do whatever I wanted to you! Don't. Mess. With. Me."

The Freak looked at him frantically, searching him for any hint of mercy. Finding none, he tried again to surge up, stopped by Anderson pressing the knife into his throat again, harder this time, a thin line of red appearing against his porcelain skin.

"Any last words?" asked Anderson spitefully.

The Freak swallowed, and closed his eyes. He knew, thought Anderson spitefully, knew that there was no point in fighting, in pleading, in screaming for help. Knew that Anderson could and would make good on his threat to draw his death out in the most painful way possible.

"See you in hell," Anderson said. Then he drew the knife across the Freak's throat.

It was the blood and the pained, guttural moan that he let out that finally cleared the red mist from Anderson's vision.

"My god..." he whispered in shock, letting the knife fall from his grasp. "Holmes...Holmes..." he reached forward and shook the man, getting absolutely nothing save a flicker of the eyelids. "Sherlock!" he gasped frantically, trying to staunch the bleeding. "Come on, don't die, don't die..."

A final, labored gasp, then nothing.

No. No. God no.

He had done this, thought Anderson numbly, searching for a pulse on his victim's wrist. He had killed a man out of anger and spite.

He had murdered Sherlock Holmes.


	2. Chapter 2

Mrs. Hudson picked up her two bags of groceries (just a few stray items to replace the ones used for experiments by Sherlock, bless him) and swung them out of the cab. She fumbled with the keys to the door.

She turned the third key in the lock, and stepped over the threshold. She put the groceries in the kitchen and yelled up to Sherlock, who she knew was the only one upstairs, after yet another fight with John.

"Sherlock, come help me put away the groceries!"

No reply.

"Sherlock!" She rolled her eyes. "Honestly." She started up the stairs, which is something she normally wouldn't bother doing, but she was getting rather sick of letting Sherlock get away with making her the housekeeper and not doing anything in turn.

"Sherlock!" she called, rapping on his door. "I need your help." No response. Sherlock could be really, really childish sometimes.

"Sherlock could you please just-" she began, swinging the door open. The words died in her throat as she stared at the sight before her in horror. No wonder he hadn't answered.

Her irritable tenant lay on the ground, arms sprawled out on either side of him, long legs stretched out, looking like a thrown-aside rag doll. His eyes were closed, and he would look like he were sleeping were it not for the ribbon of red that cut across his throat and pooled on the floor beside him.

"No," she whispered in horror, stepping backwards but keeping her eyes locked on Sherlock's prone form. "No, no, no, no." She found herself running forwards, an ignored pain shooting up her hip, and bending down over the dark-haired detective. Fingers searched clumsily at his wrist for a pulse, already knowing that they wouldn't find one, yet deluding themselves into thinking that there was some way he could be alive.

Nothing. Not a flutter, not a weak lub-dub that would indicate hope, just a cold, blank nothingness. She frantically brought her hand over his lips, hoping to feel warm breath on her fingers, but still, nothing.

She didn't tell him to wake up. To stop his charade. Because Mrs. Hudson, who had grimly watched her husband's execution, who had watched one of her best friends succumb to cancer, knew that it was pointless. That Sherlock wasn't just sleeping, that he wasn't faking it, that this wasn't a mask put on for a case. That he was truly, honestly, properly dead.

Sherlock. Dead. It seemed unreal, that him, of all people, would be lying murdered on the kitchen floor, and that she, of all people, would be the one to find him.

She shakily picked up her phone and dialed 999.

"999, state your emergency," said the crisp, professional voice. When Mrs. Hudson spoke, her voice shook with suppressed emotion.

"Hello...I...I just found one of my tenants...one of my friends...dead in his flat...I..."

"Did you check for a pulse?"

"There was none."

"For breath?"

"The same."

"Any injuries?"

"His throat...his throat was slit."

The woman spoke again, slightly sympathetic, but no-nonsense all the time. She hears these kind of stories far too often, and Mrs. Hudson briefly wondered what it would be like to have that job.

"Is there a weapon in his hand or near his body?"

"No...no..." she took a deep breath. Sherlock would never..."He was murdered."

"Are you still in the same room as the body?"

"Yes."

"Are there any signs of other persons in the room?"

"No."

"Any signs of a weapon?"

"Um..." Mrs. Hudson glanced around the room, but there were no bloodstained knives to be seen. "No."

"Right then. M'am, is there a nearby public area that you can get to?"

"Yes, yes, there's a cafe downstairs."

"Go and wait there until the police get there, alright?"

"Of course." The murderer could still be lurking in the flat. She didn't want to be around if he panicked.

A pause as Mrs. Hudson tore herself away from staring at Sherlock's body and walked down the stairs, out to the street and into Speedy's."

"I'm in the cafe."

"A team is on there way over. Are you alright? Do you feel ill at all?"

"No, no, I'm fine."

"The team should be there in less than five minutes, can you hold on that long?"

"Yes."

The woman remained on the line with Mrs. Hudson, asking a rapid fire series of questions about her health, if she was feeling cold or faint at all. Mrs. Hudson knew that she was most likely testing her for shock. She had been through this routine before, also involving Sherlock, when her husband had stabbed the man in the stomach when he confronted him about his murderous and abusive ways.

She could hear sirens, and see the bright flashing lights outside the cafe.

"The police are here."

"Alright, m'am. Goodbye." The phone line disconnected with a sharp click, and Mrs. Hudson dialed another number as she pulled the door open to greet Lestrade.

"Hello?" said a pleasant voice. "Mrs. Hudson?"

"John. You've got to get over to 221B. Now."

* * *

Lestrade leaned back against his chair and sighed. Today had been slow, which, considering that he was one of the lead detectives of the Homicide Team, was always a good thing. Although such a state did always bring the risk of explosions going of at 221B Baker Street, but win some, lose some.

He took another sip of his coffee and bent over the paperwork of a case from last week, one which he hadn't even needed Sherlock's help on, much to the disappointment of the consulting detective. An open and shut case with minimal paperwork, the fact that he had yet to do it was more procrastination than anything else.

As he signed his name on the final form, his phone rang. Evil never sleeps, he thought drily as he picked up the phone.

"Detective Inspector Lestrade," he spoke crisply into the phone, tidying up the paperwork into a neat stack.

"Reported homicide at 221B Baker Street, you've been assigned the case," drawled the voice on the other end. Lestrade froze, his hand hovering over the desk.

"Can you repeat the address?" he asked, heart hammering in his ears. If he had heard correctly...it wouldn't matter who the victim was, in any case, it would be a long, difficult night.

"221B Baker Street," repeated the woman on the other end, evidently not thinking that Lestrade's request was anything more than a brief lapse in hearing. Lestrade nodded to himself, closing his eyes and trying to compose himself and remain clinically detached.

"Got it, I'll be right over," he answered, hanging up the phone and striding out of his office. He knocked on Donovan's door and it swung open, the woman in question peering out curiously.

"Am I needed somewhere?" she asked, and Lestrade nodded.

"There's been a reported homicide. I don't know who the victim is yet, but Donovan, promise that you'll keep your personal opinions out of this, okay?" She nodded uncertainly, eyes narrowing in confusion.

"What's going on?"

"Apparently, the homicide took place at 221B." Her eyes went from narrow to wide in point-2 seconds, and he could practically see the "Sherlock's responsible," click behind them. He doesn't comment, instead turning away from her and assembling the rest of his team, who all react similarly to Donovan.

Anderson was off duty, he noticed with relief, so at least he wouldn't have to worry about his snide comments and dislike of Sherlock. Brown, a likable fellow, was on forensics instead, and Lestrade was grateful for small mercies.

The team was assembled and heading to 221B within five minutes, not even needing to stop for directions, having been over there enough times. Lestrade tried to keep himself from worrying as they pulled up to the curb, shortly followed by an ambulance in case the victim was still alive somehow.

Lestrade knocked on the door. "Police!" he called, and within five seconds Mrs. Hudson had the door open. She was crying, he noticed grimly, with the kind of tears that were born from honest-to-god grief, and not just shock. It was likely someone she knew, someone she was close to.

Considering who's flat it was...Lestrade was starting to feel nervousness coiling in his stomach.

"Are you alright?" he asked Mrs. Hudson gently as the ambulance pulled over to the curb, paramedics rushing out with gurneys at the ready.

"Yes, yes, but Lestrade...he's," she inhaled a gasp of air. "Sherlock he's..."

"You don't have to talk," said Lestrade, his heart sinking. _God, Sherlock's dead. Or at the very least, injured enough to appear like he is._

"He's upstairs," said Mrs. Hudson shakily, pointing her finger at 221B's doorway. Lestrade waved two paramedics over.

"Follow me, confirm if the victim is deceased," he instructed one of them. "You take this woman over to the ambulance and check her for signs of shock," he said to the other. He was forcing himself to remain detached, to act as though the victim wasn't a man that he had known and worked with for years. That it wasn't the invincible Sherlock whose murder he was investigating.

When they reached the top top of the stairs, the paramedic immediately crossed the room and starting prodding at Sherlock with a stethoscope, searching for a pulse. He opened Sherlock's mouth, before pulling off a glove and holding it lightly in front of his mouth. He shook his head sadly, pulling the glove back on and peeling back an eye. He then got to his feet and glanced at his watch.

"Time of death is 5:35 in the evening," he said crisply. "Over to you, detective inspector."

"Thank you," Lestrade murmured grimly. He had hoped that maybe Mrs. Hudson had just overreacted. Evidently not. Lestrade took a deep breath before going back downstairs to summon the rest of his team.

"Confirmed death. Victim's name is Sherlock Holmes, a thirty-four-year-old male. At first glance, the cause of death appears to be from a knife wound to the carotid artery. No sign of a weapon around the victim, so as of now, we are working under the assumption that this is a homicide." His team had gone silent as he had rattled out the stream of information, surprise etched on their features.

"I know that many of you knew and had feelings of distaste about the victim, but I'm asking you to put those feelings aside and do your jobs as professionals, have you got that? We'd be looking for a team that didn't know him, but I don't think there's a single homicide officer at the Yard who hasn't worked with him at some point or another."

"Yes sir," mumbled the team, as they pulled on their gloves and suits so that they wouldn't contaminate the scene. Donovan slipped away from the others, walking up to Lestrade with a look of concern on her face.

"Sir, are you alright? You knew Sher–the victim–pretty well. Are you fit to work?"

"Course I am. Always am. Right, let's get to it."

He had never thought that he'd be investigating the Sherlock's murder, but now that he was, he was damn well going to do it properly. Otherwise, when he kicked the bucket, he was sure to get a deluge of irritated remarks concerning all sorts of evidence he had missed in the flat. Plus, he owed it to Sherlock to bring his killer to justice, to get some closure for John, Mrs. Hudson and–if he were to be perfectly honest–himself. It wouldn't be fair if the detective that had solved hundreds of cases, and made it easier for those families to sleep at night, remained an unsolved case file stowed away in some cabinet

It was just as Lestrade was about to open the doorway to 221B that a cab pulled up to the side of the road, John scrambling out of it with worry on his face. Mrs. Hudson must have called him. John took in the yellow crime scene tape, Lestrade and his team standing there in their blue suits, Mrs. Hudson in the ambulance with an orange blanket draped 'round her shoulders, and a look of horror dawned on his face.

"Lestrade," he said shakily. "Please tell me that what I think is happening is just an extreme overreaction on my part."

"I'm sorry," replied Lestrade, because what else could he say? "Sherlock is dead."

"No," murmured John uncomprehendingly. "No. No, no, no. God, no." He sank to his knees. "This can't be happening."

"I know, I know," said Lestrade sadly as a paramedic ran over to pick John up and escort him over to the ambulance to join Mrs. Hudson. "I'm so sorry John. I'm so, so sorry."


	3. Chapter 3

John wandered around in a daze, still unable to believe that Sherlock could have been torn from him in such a horrible, vicious way. Sherlock, the man who had had more near-death experiences than John could count on both hands, lying dead in a pool of his own blood.

Lestrade and his team had ruled out suicide almost immediately, what with there not being a knife anywhere near Sherlock, and the the bruise forming on his head. Murder, then, Lestrade had told John grimly as Donovan began to set the yellow tape around the building. Sherlock had been murdered.

And John blamed himself. If he hadn't stormed out on Sherlock, if he had stayed and spoken to him, protected him...the unknown assailant would never have gotten ahold of his friend. Sherlock would still be alive. Another sob was torn from John's throat at that thought. He may not have held the knife, but he had as good as killed Sherlock himself. It was all his fault. London had lost one of it's greatest protectors, and John had lost his best friend. And if he hadn't been so oversensitive, none of this would have happened.

Lestrade was exchanging words with his team, taking down notes and remaining stoic and calm. John didn't know how he pulled it off, having known Sherlock for years. Clinically detached, his mind supplied him, like you should be. He shouldn't be moping, he told himself, he should be out there, hunting down Sherlock's killer. It was what the detective would have wanted. Always itching for a mystery, hell, he'd be asking why John was crying.

Followed by an exchange about sentiment and timing, and John rolling his eyes about the blatant insensitivity of his friend, or maybe running off for a good sulk. Then Sherlock would sorta-kinda apologize, and attempt to make John some tea. It would be cold, and John would have to pour it down the sink to avoid risking his life (seeing as one time Sherlock mixed the tea leaves with acid by accident, somehow) but it would still be nice to know Sherlock cared.

He did care...had cared–god, he was going to have to start referring to Sherlock in the past tense. Underneath all the grandeur and coldness, a part of him had genuinely cared for John. The look of fear and confusion in Sherlock's eyes at the pool–_this is a turn up, isn't it Sherlock?–_him frantically yelling to the CIA agents that no, _he didn't know the code, _showed that.

And John didn't miss him, not really. He knew that later, when he was away from the flashing lights and yellow tape and the cold reminder that his friend was lying a floor away, dead, the full implications of what he had lost would hit him, and the tears would flow even more freely. But right now was a strange mixture of grief, confusion, and the persistent thought that Sherlock was just behind him, ready to swoop in amongst the Yarders and explain to them exactly what was going on. It felt like he was being hit in the gut repeatedly by the awful truth, _he's not coming home, you'll never hear that voice again, he's gone, you're _never getting him back.

It hurt. God, it hurt. John clutched the orange woolen blanket–_I'm in shock, look I've got a blanket!–_tighter around himself and watched as the black, completely conspicuous car drove up next to the ambulance. First Anthea and then Mycroft climbed out, the latter his usual calm and composed self. And that would have set John's teeth on edge except he saw the small signs. He saw Anthea's hand rest briefly on her employer's shoulder, a small gesture of comfort and support, saw the weariness and pain flicker in Mycroft's eyes. The man was grieving just as much, and maybe even more, than John was. He just wasn't nearly as open with his emotions.

"My brother...?" Mycroft asks John, trailing off, creating an unspoken _please, dear god, tell me my sources were wrong. Tell me that Sherlock's still alive._

John cannot say the cold, unfeeling word out loud. _Dead. _So ugly. How was it that a simple, four-letter word was capable of causing so much pain? Too much pain for John to deal with right now. So instead, he takes the coward's way out.

"I'm sorry."

Mycroft nodded shortly and climbed back into the car, not stopping to speak to Lestrade, or weasel his way into the house to see his baby brother lying cold and stiff on the floor. No, he just wanted to confirm what he already knew. If he was anything like Sherlock, he was returning home to analyze and reanalyze the CCTV footage of all the cameras ten miles from here, not sleeping or eating until he found the identity of Sherlock's killer.

_The bastard won't even walk free for twenty-four hours,_ thought John as Lestrade gently tells him to leave, go stay with his family, maybe. _And for that, I am incredibly grateful._


	4. Chapter 4

He stretched his arms above him as his eyes blinked open, a deep ache rushing through his bones, no doubt from spending the night on the couch. Fallen asleep thinking again, undoubtably. John would be irritated. He always insisted that Sherlock needed real, proper sleep, that countless nights of twisted necks and arms would give him health problems. Dull.

Sherlock sighed and drew his dressing gown closer around himself, climbing up off the the couch and walking into the kitchen to see if John had made tea yet. No sign of him. Sherlock frowned, eyes darting to the left and the right, glancing at the clock. Ten in the morning. John was normally up by now.

He rolled his eyes in irritation upon seeing the bloodstains spattered across the kitchen floor. He thought he had cleaned up that experiment on Wednesday, but evidently it was either a dream or wishful thinking. Ignoring it for the time being (later, he would definitely not forget it this time) Sherlock walked back into the living room and made his way up the stairs, intent on waking up John and demanding his morning dose of caffeine and sugar.

John was still conspicuously absent. A faint pang of worry shot through Sherlock, and he was about to locate his phone and text John, when the man himself walked into the room.

"Ah, John, I was just looking for you."

His eyes were red-rimmed and there were dark circles under them. He walked as though he had aged ten years overnight and his limp had returned. He also was steadfastly ignoring Sherlock's presence in the room, moving about and gathering various articles of clothing together.

"John, what's wrong?"

Still no answer. John finished throwing his last pair of socks into his large suitcase, and walked over to the closet, not even glancing in Sherlock's direction.

_Come on Holmes, deduce. Figure out what's wrong with the man._

His eyes flashed over John's clothing (hastily thrown on and worn the day before, slight tear stains on the shirt sleeves) and his posture (hunched, as previously noted, but also with the air of exhaustion that indicated a night spent tossing and turning on a sofa, getting up, and pacing around the room.) He smelt faintly of whiskey, but not enough so that he had gone to a pub. Conclusion: He had spent the night at Harry's.

And while that could certainly explain a slight unease, for Sherlock could remember the sadness that clung to John after visiting his sister a few times before, it didn't explain the complete and utter devastation written all over his face.

Sherlock followed John out of the room once he had finished packing, still calling after him and trying to get him to stop and listen.

"John, you don't have to leave, really..."

Sherlock was rapidly drawing the conclusion that John was angry with him, but could not for the life of him think of a reason why. Was it the way he had acted at the crime scene yesterday, berating Anderson and his life choices for the umpteenth time? Putting his life at risk to scale that waterfall chasing after a serial killer? (though Sherlock thought that they had already hashed that out while John was patching him up.) Using the oysters that John had bought for dinner in an experiment, then claiming he had only done it because they were planning on taking over the world? Hell, the _bloodstains? _Sherlock really couldn't think of anything he had done that would make John run-out-of-the-flat angry.

Nor could he think of anything that would cause Lestrade to be standing solemnly at the foot of the stairs, arms crossed over his chest and looking at John with sympathetic eyes.

"Alright?" he asked.

"Think so," John replied, shifting his weight from side to side. "It's just..."

"Yeah, I know."

_Oh, can't you just _say _it? Spit it out already! _If there was one thing that Sherlock hated, more than anything in the world, it was being kept in the dark. He let out a huff of impatience and followed John down the stairs. He set the suitcase down on the floor when they reached the living room and crossed over to the corner, where Sherlock had neatly put away his violin the night before. John carefully reached down and picked the case up, then crossed over to where Lestrade and Sherlock stood.

The latter of the two let out a noise of indignation, stepping forward to take the violin out of John's hands. Angry as his flatmate may be, there was no reason for him to steal a valuable instrument that Sherlock held very dear to his heart. John once again walked right past him without even looking.

"Ready to go?" asked Lestrade.

"You're just going to let him steal my violin?" protested Sherlock. "Lestrade, what–"

"Yes," John said softly, tightening his grip on the suitcase and violin. "I am. Let's go, I want to get out of here."

"John, for god's sakes, be reasonable!"

Lestrade nodded resolutely and strode out of the room, John still following him. Sherlock ran forward and made to grab John's shoulder only to fall right through him and go sprawling to the ground. He lay there in a daze, completely confused, his brain working in overdrive to figure out what was happening to him.

John just kept walking, stepping on–through–Sherlock's chest and in the physical sense, it was painless. Mentally, on the other hand...

Sherlock was starting to draw a conclusion that made his stomach curl and his heart leap into his throat. It was confirmed, at last, when John spoke to Lestrade.

"I still can't believe...I still can't believe that he's really gone." Crack. Shatter. Sherlock's whole world fell apart.

He sprinted after John and Lestrade–who weren't ignoring him, they couldn't _see _him, oh god they were _mourning _him–trying desperately to get their attention, to get help, an explanation. Something, anything.

But the shouts and screams that poured from his mouth didn't draw any attention, and they opened the door to Baker street and stepped out into the sunlight and pushed their way through the yellow crime scene tape–_it was here, it was here, I died here, the bloodstains, my blood, mine. I was murdered._

He felt lost and afraid and for the first time of his life he had absolutely no idea what to do. He stood on the doorstep of his home in his dressing gown–which, he realized, was transparent like the rest of him–and floundered about in the hallways and corridors of his mind palace for a solution. But nothing came of it.

_Someone murdered me._

_I am dead. I am dead. Oh god, I am dead._


End file.
